


Fuchsia

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Master/Servant, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8622739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Poor/lucky Elrond gets a lapful of bare misunderstandings.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s only just retired to his guest quarters when a knock comes to the door—Elrond pauses, glancing up, but the door opens without his leave. He fully expects Thranduil to slip inside and try again to goad him into coming back for another drink, though he’s made it quite clear that he means to retire. Despite his host’s stubborn assumptions, he didn’t come all the way to the Woodland Realm just to imbibe.

The elf that enters is most definitely not Thranduil. His skin is as pale, but his hair is darker: honey-orange, his frame is shorter and more slender, and he has none of Thranduil’s regal bearing. A servant, Elrond quickly concludes, though Elrond thinks he might’ve seen this one in the guard on his way in—an archer, perhaps. The elf bows his head with his gaze averted, and then he shuts the door quietly behind him.

Elrond waits for whatever message this elf must bring, but no words come out of the youth’s mouth. His face does look quite young—younger than all of Elrond’s children, if only by a few dozen years—but that doesn’t matter much until the elf draws loose the strings that hold his flimsy silver robes together.

He breathes, “My lord,” and steps right out of them, the very second they slink to the floor. Elrond, perched on the edge of the bed with his hands at the clasps of his own robes, freezes instantly. The young elf wears nothing underneath. Elrond gets halfway down his smooth chest before quickly averting back to his soft face. It’s all Elrond can do to keep his own cheeks from staining crimson. He means to demand to know what the elf is doing, but his tongue won’t seem to work, and the elf takes another step forward, purring demurely, “I am Meludir, my king’s humble servant, archer in his guard, and pleasure-boy whenever he should have want of me. He has sent me to please you during your stay.” And he bows again, this time with one delicate hand laid across his flat breast, and he bends so low that all his bright hair goes tumbling over his shoulders. When he straightens, Elrond still can’t speak, and Meludir drifts forward like a cloud in a dream.

He should’ve known Thranduil would do something like this. Of _course_ Thranduil would have his own little circle of servants that attended to his every whim—of course he’d take them to bed. Elrond feels abruptly foolish for not preparing for this and entirely too old to be stumbling over it now. But the room is relatively small, and Meludir’s quickly across it, close enough that Elrond can’t look away: he takes in _everything_ : Meludir’s trim shoulders, his rosy nipples, his taut stomach, the gentle curve of his hips, the light dusting of hair between his legs, the flushed-pink lips that already look like they’re glistening wetly. Then Meludir lifts one leg and hikes himself right onto the bed, right into Elrond’s lap, and he takes his seat on Elrond’s thighs, his bare legs parting wide for it. He lays his hands crisply on Elrond’s broader shoulders and purrs, “I will do _anything_ you like, my lord...”

Elrond finally moves—he puts a hand on Meludir’s hip to push the poor thing back—he needs space for this rejection. As undeniably beautiful as Meludir is, Elrond refuses to be tempted—he doesn’t use servants like that—but just as he opens his mouth, the door pushes open again.

It still isn’t Thranduil. It’s the one other elf that has leave to enter Elrond’s quarters without knocking, for Lindir’s attendance to Elrond is constant and thorough.

Lindir steps inside to shut the door, only to turn a second later and really _look_ at his lord, who may have never felt so embarrassed in his entire life.

Elrond gives no explanation. There’s simply nothing he can say to make this alright: he has a naked elf several centuries his junior straddling his lap. Lindir is the worst possible witness Elrond could have. Not only is Lindir quite young himself, still innocent and far more proper than this, but Elrond’s always been quite fond of him. At times, too fond. Now Lindir gapes between them, his sweet face falling quickly from shock into devastation.

Elrond starts with a heavy, “Lindir...”

But Lindir abruptly closes his open mouth and reaches for the clasps of his own robes. He’s fiddled them open in a heartbeat, and the lightning-quick action halts Elrond’s speech. Lindir wrenches his thick robes over his arms and bursts with a blush that reaches all the way to the tips of his ears, “My lord, no, please, take me instead—”

Elrond manages a faint, “What?” And Meludir clutches tighter to Elrond’s shoulders, leaning conspicuously into him. 

Lindir pulls the tunic underneath right over his head, leaving his chest bare, and Elrond _stares_ while Lindir yanks at his breeches and kicks out of his sandals, insisting, “I did not know—my lord, I am sorry, if you wished for those needs met, I would of course have—please, my lord, I know you so well, far better than him, surely I could please you better—” And just like that, Lindir, his shy, ever-over-appropriate Lindir, is utterly naked and rushing forward. Elrond forces himself not to take advantage of the misunderstanding, not to ogle Lindir’s gorgeous body, but he has no chance anyway—Lindir moves too fast. One minute he’s by the door, and the next, he’s climbing up onto the bed and trying to sidle into Elrond’s lap, pushing Meludir aside, and Meludir makes an annoyed noise but relinquishes one of Elrond’s legs, so both of them can straddle one of his thighs. Both of them are stunning, but Lindir still has Elrond’s attention: he gushes, “I-I have no training in this, my lord, but I promise, I will do anything you ask, and surely I can learn more than this one—”

“I have much training,” Meludir jumps in, shouldering Lindir aside. Donning a truly dazzling smile, Meludir rolls his hips forward into Elrond’s, and Elrond grunts at the contact, at the press of Meludir’s warm flesh even through his robes. Meludir lets out a raunchy moaning noise, absolutely filthy, and begs, “Let me serve you, my lord, and I will give you _such_ pleasure—”

“No, let me,” Lindir interrupts, his chiming minstrel’s voice now strained and frantic. He splays his hands across Elrond’s chest, beneath Meludir’s palms, and pleads, “Please, my lord Elrond, I have always been your loyal servant; I would do anything for you! You need not turn to this one—”

“Turn to me,” Meludir moans, “Use me, fuck me—”

“Fuck _me_ ,” Lindir whines, and to hear such profanities come from _Lindir_ of all people finally shocks Elrond to his senses. 

Simply to avoid touching them anywhere else, Elrond takes a fistful of their hair, one each, and tugs them back—they both splutter in surprise and cry out at the tug, which he regrets, but it works; when he lets go, they keep a more respectful distance. Or as much respect and distance as there can be for two naked men atop him.

With a deep breath and tremendous effort to resist their allure, Elrond tells them, “I will use neither of you.”

Meludir’s face falls. Lindir looks even more distraught than before. It’s not the reaction he expected. Clearing his throat, he continues, “I am sure you are both adequate servants...” He wishes his cheeks weren’t so hot and his lap weren’t stirring. He fears they can see right through his thin resistance, but when he doesn’t continue, both elves only bow their heads. 

“I... I am so sorry, my lord,” Lindir mumbles first, his posture now utterly broken. Elrond feels a surge of guilt—this was the first time he ever saw Lindir act so brazen, and this is how his confidence has been rewarded. “I should not have intruded so... and I certainly should not have... not have embarrassed you in this way... I... will resign... if you wish...” His voice cracks; it sounds like he might cry. “P-please, use him—I would never wish to prevent your pleasure...”

“Lindir,” Elrond starts, his hand already coming to Lindir’s shoulder, ready to console, but Meludir jumps in first.

“No, my lord, it is I who overstepped—I did not know you had a pleasure-elf of your own. My king will understand, although I... I would still wish to join you, to attend to your pleasure with your servant, if you would have me...”

Elrond’s reeling. But Lindir’s head perks, his gaze turning, wide-eyed, to Meludir, and then both elves are watching Elrond with such wounded yet hopeful looks that he doesn’t have the heart to send them away.

It baffles him that he’s even in this position. But Lindir breathes another, “Please,” and Meludir bites his lip and wriggles his bottom encouragingly against Elrond’s leg. Lindir glances at the movement and tries to mimic it, but his hips move with a more staccato rhythm than Meludir’s practiced rolls. It draws Elrond to finally look at the pink cock nestled along his thigh, already hard and beaded with precum—Lindir hunches sheepishly at Elrond’s gaze but doesn’t try to cover himself. Instead, he closes his eyes and begs, “ _Please_.”

So Elrond breaks. He considers himself strong, but even he can’t summon the will to resist two such superb creatures. He sighs, “Very well,” and Lindir’s eyes shoot open. The ecstatic look that bubbles onto his face makes Elrond’s embarrassment more than worth it. Meludir makes a giddy noise and gives a sudden shove to Elrond’s chest.

He hits the mattress, and both elves descend on him in a slew of eager kisses, busily stripping off his robes.


End file.
